COMPANY.
The best room was not by any means so bright, so cheerful, or so kindly
as the family parlour, with its family disarrangement, and the amateur
paperhanging upon its walls. Before their guests arrived the girls made
an effort to improve its appearance. They pulled the last beautiful
bunches of the lilac to fill the little glass vases, and placed candles
in the ornamental glass candlesticks upon the mantelpiece. But even a
double quantity of light did not bring good cheer to this dull and
solemn apartment. Had it been winter, indeed, a fire might have made a
difference; but it was early summer--one of those balmy nights so sweet
out of doors, which give an additional shade of gloom to
dark-complexioned parlours, shutting out the moon and the stars, the
night air and the dew. Agnes and Marian, fanciful and visionary, kept
the door open themselves, and went wandering about the dark garden,
where the summer flowers came slowly, and the last primrose was dying
pale and sweet under the poplar tree. They went silently and singly, one
after the other, through the garden paths, hearing, without observing,
the two different footsteps which came to the front door. If they were
thinking, neither of them knew or could tell what she was thinking
about, and they returned to the house without a word, only knowing how
much more pleasant it was to be out here in the musical and breathing
darkness, than to be shut closely within the solemn enclosure of the
best room.
But there, by the table where Marian had maliciously laid his paper, was
the stately appearance of Mr Endicott, holding high his abstracted head,
while Harry Oswald, anxious, and yet hesitating, lingered at the door,
eagerly on the watch for the light step of which he had so immediate a
perception when it came. Harry, who indeed had no great inducement to be
much in love with himself, forgot himself altogether as his quick ear
listened for the foot of Marian. Mr Endicott, on the contrary, added a
loftier shape to his abstraction, by way of attracting and not
expressing admiration. Unlucky Harry was in love with Marian; his
intellectual cousin only aimed at making Marian in love with _him_.
And she came in, slightly conscious, we admit, that she was the heroine
of the night, half aware of the rising rivalry, half-enlightened as to
the different character of these two very different people, and of the
one motive which brought them here. So a flitting changeable blush went
and came upon the face of Marian. Her eyes, full of the sweet darkness
and dew of the night, were dazzled by the lights, and would not look
steadily at any one; yet a certain gleam of secret mischief and
amusement in her face betrayed itself to Harry Oswald, though not at all
to the unsuspicious American. She took her seat very sedately at the
table, and busied herself with her fancy-work. Mr Endicott sat opposite,
looking at her; and Harry, a moving shadow in the dim room, hovered
about, sitting and standing behind her chair.
Besides these young people, Mr Atheling, Mr Foggo, and Mamma, were in
the room, conversing among themselves, and taking very little notice of
the other visitors. Mamma was making a little frock, upon which she
bestowed unusual pains, as it seemed; for no civility of Mr Endicott
could gain any answer beyond a monosyllable from the virtuous and
indignant mistress of the house. He was playing with his own papers as
Agnes and Marian came to the table, affectionately turning them over,
and looking at the heading of the “Letter from England” with a loving
eye.
“You are interested in literature, I believe?” said Mr Endicott. Agnes,
Marian, and Harry, all of them glancing at him in the same moment,
could not tell which he addressed; so there was a confused murmur of
reply. “Not in the slightest,” cried Harry Oswald, behind Marian’s
chair. “Oh, but Agnes is!” cried Marian; and Agnes herself, with a
conscious blush, acknowledged--“Yes, indeed, very much.”
“But not, I suppose, very well acquainted with the American press?” said
Mr Endicott. “The bigotry of Europeans is marvellous. We read your
leading papers in the States, but I have not met half-a-dozen people in
England--actually not six individuals--who were in the frequent habit of
seeing the _Mississippi Gazette_.”
“We rarely see any newspapers at all,” said Agnes, apologetically. “Papa
has his paper in the evenings, but except now and then, when there is a
review of a book in it----”
“That is the great want of English contemporary literature,” interrupted
Mr Endicott. “You read the review--good! but you feel that something
else is wanted than mere politics--that votes and debates do not supply
the wants of the age!”
“If the wants of the age were the wants of young ladies,” said Harry
Oswald, “what would become of my uncle and Mr Atheling? Leave things in
their proper place, Endicott. Agnes and Marian want something different
from newspaper literature and leading articles. Don’t interfere with the
girls.”
“These are the slavish and confined ideas of a worn out civilisation,”
said the man of letters; “in my country we respect the opinions of our
women, and give them full scope.”
“Respect!--the old humbug!” muttered Harry behind Marian’s chair. “Am I
disrespectful? I choose to be judged by you.”
Marian glanced over her shoulder with saucy kindness. “Don’t quarrel,”
said Marian. No! Poor Harry was so glad of the glance, the smile, and
the confidence, that he could have taken Endicott, who was the cause of
it, to his very heart.
“The functions of the press,” said Mr Endicott, “are unjustly limited in
this country, like most other enlightened influences. In these days we
have scarcely time to wait for books. It is not with us as it was in old
times, when the soul lay fallow for a century, and then blossomed into
its glorious epic, or drama, or song! Our audience must perceive the
visible march of mind, hour by hour and day by day. We are no longer
concerned about mere physical commotions, elections, or debates, or
votes of the Senate. In these days we care little for the man’s
opinions; what we want is an advantageous medium for studying the man.”
As she listened to this, Agnes Atheling held her breath, and suspended
her work unawares. It sounded very imposing, indeed--to tell the truth,
it sounded something like that magnificent conversation in books over
which Marian and she had often marvelled. Then this simple girl believed
in everybody; she was rather inclined to suppose of Mr Endicott that he
was a man of very exalted mind.
“I do not quite know,” said Agnes humbly, “whether it is right to tell
all about great people in the newspapers, or even to put them in books.
Do you think it is, Mr Endicott?”
“I think,” said the American, solemnly, “that a public man, and, above
all, a literary man, belongs to the world. All the exciting scenes of
life come to us only that we may describe and analyse them for the
advantage of others. A man of genius has no private life. Of what
benefit is the keenness of his emotions if he makes no record of them?
In my own career,” continued the literary gentleman, “I have been
sometimes annoyed by foolish objections to the notice I am in the habit
of giving of friends who cross my way. Unenlightened people have
complained of me, in vulgar phrase, that I ‘put them in the newspapers.’
How strange a misconception! for you must perceive at once that it was
not with any consideration of them, but simply that my readers might see
every scene I passed through, and in reality feel themselves travelling
with _me_!”
“Oh!” Agnes made a faint and very doubtful exclamation; Harry Oswald
turned on his heel, and left the room abruptly; while Marian bent very
closely over her work, to conceal that she was laughing. Mr Endicott
thought it was a natural youthful reverence, and gave her all due credit
for her “ingenuous emotions.”
“The path of genius necessarily reveals certain obscure individuals,”
said Mr Endicott; “they cross its light, and the poet has no choice. I
present to my audience the scenes through which I travel. I introduce
the passengers on the road. Is it for the sake of these passengers? No.
It is that my readers may be enabled, under all circumstances, to form a
just realisation of _me_. That is the true vocation of a poet: he ought
to be in himself the highest example of everything--joy, delight,
suffering, remorse, and ruin--yes, I am bold enough to say, even crime.
No man should be able to suppose that he can hide himself in an
indescribable region of emotion where the poet cannot follow. Shall
murder be permitted to attain an experience beyond the reach of genius?
No! Everything must be possessed by the poet’s intuitions, for he
himself is the great lesson of the world.”
“Charlie,” said Harry Oswald behind the door, “come in, and punch this
fellow’s head.”